An Early Retirement
by IronSpockMaster
Summary: Death realises he's not so keen on this retiring lark. A sort of drabble/oneshot/. Enjoy : I don't own discworld;


**AN: Thanks to SilverInkblot**** for beta-ing**

For once, Death was content. Content in the fact that nothing more could go wrong. Content in the fact that he had no more worries, or responsibilities. Content in the fact that all he had to deal with was fishing, and cats. He could deal with fishing and cats. Especially cats. He liked cats.

Ah, but he had had a good time, hadn't he? All those people. And all of those wizards, each one expecting him to visit them in person, each one so darn full of themselves. And then there was the Rincewind, with his ridiculous piece of luggage. Not that Death had been there himself; he had sent Scrofula, that fool of a demon. But the wizard survived, completely by accident. It had been one of those unexpected twists of fate, but Death had, of course, known all along that his demon was going to fail. And of course Rincewind would survive. He still had plenty of sand left in his hourglass. More than those cats had, Death thought, suddenly solemn. He HATED cruelty to cats. Why cats, why kittens? What was people's problem with tiny, defenceless felines? It made him sick to his stomach... or not, since he didn't have a stomach. SOME THINGS ABOUT BEING A SKELETON REALLY GET ME DOWN he rumbled out loud.

Mort heard the concrete blocks grinding together from the other side of Death's house.

"What's he grumbling about now?" he muttered, putting down the hour glass he had been watching, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotic trickle of sand, and standing up behind the grand old desk. Death's desk. His desk. Not something he'd ever have expected when he had stood outside on that cold, dark and fateful night, the night when Death had picked him.

Death waited. And waited. Where was that dastardly boy? Not that he had called him to come, he just… expected him to turn up. He had to remind himself that Mort was only a human. BUT A DAMNED GOOD ONE he rumbled. ELSE I WOULDN'T HAVE TAKEN HIM ON, WOULD I? No, in Death's electric blue eyes, Mort was a perfect substitute for him as the collector of souls. Death gazed around the room, his eyes sweeping over the elements of his retirement. An eternity was now his. An eternity all to himself, without people dying here there and everywhere, and everyone expecting him to clean up behind them. MORTALS he muttered, if the sound of millstones grinding together could ever be called muttering.

Mort hurried, but he always seemed to get lost. And forget things. The place was so big, so unlike where he had been brought up.

"Albert!" he yelled. The man would be around somewhere near, he always was. The old man shuffled into appearance. "The boss is grumbling again," Mort told him. He didn't know what he expected Albert to do, perhaps think of some magic cure for Death's boredom.

"And?" asked Albert. He glared at Mort, his eyes shooting what Mort hoped were imaginary daggers, because if they were real, the title of collector of souls would need someone to fill it, and so soon after Mort had taken over as well.

"Well,I was kind of hoping you would help," mumbled Mort. The creepy old man never failed to intimidate him.  
"Call Ysabel. I'm busy," was Albert's curt reply, before shuffling away.

IF I HAD A FIRST NAME, MY MIDDLE NAME WOULD BE DUTY. Death remembered when he actually had things to do with his life. Or perhaps existence was a better word to use. Now here he was, stroking a cat and eating curry. He was planning a fishing trip with Ysabel soon, not that she wanted to go. She seemed to have hit that troubled 'rebellious' stage. Unless she had always been like that, and he just hadn't noticed. SOME FATHER I MAKE he rumbled again, a coffin lid slamming shut. He wasn't really father material. From somewhere, perhaps from a kinder side of Death that was rarely shown, came the thought: SHE _HAS _BEEN SIXTEEN FOR A RATHER LONG TIME.

"Ysobel!" Mort yelled, but Ysabel either couldn't hear him or ignored him. He assumed that it was the latter, it being Ysabel. He would have to go it alone. What he couldn't see, not having am omnipresent view over the entire house, was Ysabel sitting in Binky's stable, laughing silently. Oh she could hear him alright, but sometimes a sixteen year old girl doesn't do as she's told.

"Oh, Binks," she whispered, holding in her giggles. "I want to see how this plays out." And then she stopped laughing. It wasn't so fun, being sixteen and only having spying on her father's apprentice to amuse her. She patted Binky on the nose. "I'll be back." She wandered through the house, finding Mort, but saying nothing. Oh, the look on his face when she jumped out on him. She kept a twist or so behind him on the long corridors and stairways.

IF ONLY I HAD LEARNED TO PLAY THE VIOLIN. After that revelation, he had made up his mind. MORT. Coffins slamming, concrete blocks grinding. MORT! The cat leapt from his lap as he stood up, then coiled itself around his leg. He was Death, so he didn't kick it, just waited for it to move. Then he made his way out of the library, leaving behind the dusty tomes of people's lives. BOY! GET HERE NOW!

Mort charged round the corner, straight into Death. He stumbled backwards.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he burbled, as he caught both his balance and his breath. Death was unfazed. HELLO, BOY he said, and Mort almost spotted a twinkle in his piercing gaze. Almost, but not twice. BOY, I WANT MY JOB BACK. Ah… this was what Mort had been fearing.

"I can do better, I really can." Death… chuckled? Or as close to a chuckle as Death could get anyhow. I KNOW THIS IS CLICHÉD – not that Mort knew what clichéd meant – BUT IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME. I'M NOT BORED YET. YOU CAN HAVE MY JOB IN ANOTHER HUNDRED OR SO YEARS. And even though, technically, he'd just been fired, Mort was relieved. He didn't think he was up to being the collector of souls, not yet at least.


End file.
